


The Waiting Game

by Baroness_Blixen



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Post-Episode: s11e10 My Struggle IV, mulder and scully fight in their own way, prompt comes from tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-24 15:23:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19726375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baroness_Blixen/pseuds/Baroness_Blixen
Summary: All Mulder has to do is... wait.





	The Waiting Game

**Author's Note:**

> A prompt from tumblr: My grandfather told me that when my grandma gets mad at him he tightens the pickle jar lid so she'll have to talk to him. Except here it's Mulder and Scully.

All he has to do is wait. The years have taught him as much. Mulder has never been patient, is constantly wired with restless energy, but living with Scully has mellowed him. He likes to think so anyway. Unlike him, Scully is stoically patient. Sometimes, he is certain of it, she slows down deliberately. She makes him wait; she makes him earn it. That’s why he knows he has to wait now. He always has to wait. But it’s worth it; Scully is worth every second of his waiting game.

The first time it happened it was a simple oversight on his part. He returned from an angry run, his mind still reeling from an earlier fight, and grabbed the first thing he could find in the fridge. A jar of pickles. Scully loves them. She puts them on, and in, everything. Mulder himself has never much cared for them, but at that moment, he didn’t care. The jar opened with a pop and Mulder stuffed two of the small, green vegetables into his mouth. When he put the cap back on, screwing it shut tightly, he didn’t put much thought into it. He washed the sour taste down with a glass of water and forgot about it. Until Scully showed up in his small, dimly lit office, the pickle jar in her hands. Can’t open it, she mumbled, her own anger still present, the steam of it, however, long gone. Mulder opened the jar for her, apologized, as did she, and that was that.

Now, whenever they fight, Mulder stomps into the kitchen, tightens the cap on every pickle jar he can find, and waits. Scully needs her time. She always does. Whether she’s getting ready for dinner at her mother’s, in the morning before work, or when they’re going to a ball game. She needs time. After a fight, no matter what it’s about, she needs even more time. And space. Mulder has learned that the hard way. It’s been two hours and 26 minutes now. He’s counted. One time they didn’t speak for almost two days. Only then did she appear with the jar, her eyes on the floor, handing it to him like an olive branch. It’s the one fight he remembers vividly. It was about William. One thing is certain, no matter what. Scully will come to him. Always. It might take her a few hours, a day. Mulder, impatient as always, waits for her. If he had to, he’d wait years.

Today’s fight, in comparison, has been trite: Scully wants to paint the nursery for the baby yellow, Mulder suggested green. He remembered too late that there’s no arguing with a pregnant woman. At least not with a pregnant Scully. When he backed down, threw his hands in the air and declared that he didn’t care if the walls looked like stale piss as long as his I Want To Believe poster was up there, Scully threw the sample board at him and ran out.

He’s been hiding in his office ever since, as always. Scully knows where to find him. When he hears her come down the stairs, the floorboards creaking under the additional weight of their baby growing inside her, he sits up straight in his chair. He strains his ears, not unlike Daggoo when he hears a bag of chips being opened and waits. His heart starts pounding when the fridge opens, then closes. Mulder waits. And waits. And waits. No Scully. Did he not close the jar tightly enough? This has never happened before.

The scene that greets him in the kitchen is almost comical. Scully, doubled over, with her tongue peeking out of her mouth in concentration, has both hands on the jar, yanking at the cap, trying her best to open it.

“Do you need help?” Mulder asks, trying to keep the humor out of his voice.

“No,” Scully replies, her face red, her voice strained.

“Let me do it.” She quickly turns away from him, hugging the jar to her chest. “Scully, I’m sorry.”

“You do this every time.”

“I’m not a fan of the yellow but-”

“I mean this,” she points at the jar where the pickles bob around as if mad at him too. “Do you think I didn’t know what you’re doing?” Truth be told, he’s never thought about it. Logically, he knows she must have figured it out. They’ve done this for years. Neither of them has ever mentioned it; they’ve always played along. He shrugs.

“Why the pickles, Mulder? You know how much I love pickles.”

“Give me the jar,” he says in a calm voice and her expression is so full of stubborn defiance that he just wants to kiss her. “Please,” he adds, putting on a smile, pleading with her. She hands it over and Mulder sighs. He twists and turns the cap, expecting it to come loose. Nothing happens.

“Huh,” he says, more to himself.

“Mulder, come on. This isn’t funny.”

“I’m not trying to be,” he twists again, blood shooting into his face, and Scully huffs. “I swear. I just wanted you to talk to me.”

“If you can’t open that jar we’re going with whatever shade of yellow I choose. And you’re going to the store to get a new jar.”

“Scully, did you ever think we’d fight over this? The color of our child’s nursery?” The first time, when she was pregnant with William, the nursery was a plain white. They didn’t speak about it then, didn’t even think about it. This time everything is different.

“No,” she admits.

“It’s so stupid,” he says, setting the jar on the counter to catch his breath. “It’s just a color. Why were we fighting about it?” He puts his hand on Scully’s stomach and marvels at the feeling. It’s been months and he still hasn’t fully comprehended it.

“Mulder…”

“Hm?”

“Right now I don’t care what color the nursery is, I just really want a pickle.” She watches him with big eyes. This is on you, they seem to be saying. Mulder picks up the jar and puts all his strength into it. His face turns red and then, finally, the cathartic plop rings through the kitchen. But there’s too much power behind his movement. The cap flies through the air as the pickle brine rains down on him. Scully bites her lip but doesn’t hide her amusement.

“I don’t know about you,” he says, looking at his soaked shirt, scrunching up his nose at the salty, sour scent, “but I need a shower.”

“I’m good,” Scully grins, munching on a pickle.

“Are we?” She glances at him, chewing slowly, considering his question. “Are we… good?” Mulder adds, finishing his thought. Relief floods him as she nods.

“For what it’s worth, I really am sorry. About earlier.”

“I overreacted. We can talk about green.”

“Can I kiss you?”

“Of course you can kiss me.” So he does. Just a soft kiss to remind her how much he loves her. “You smell like pickles.”

“Well, you taste like them,” he counters.

“Go shower, pickle man.”

“As you wish, pickle lady.” She hits him and he smiles. The waiting game is over.


End file.
